


(I)t will come back

by Salty_Cro



Series: worshiping a god only i can see [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Despair, Falling In Love, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Metaphors, Song: It Will Come Back (Hozier), Songfic, The Adventure Zone: Amnesty (Podcast) - Freeform, yknow all the themes one might expect from a hozier song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-22 18:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salty_Cro/pseuds/Salty_Cro
Summary: You have been so alone for so long, and done so many unforgivable things, that falling in love should not be this easy.





	(I)t will come back

**Author's Note:**

> this will be a little depressing, a lot raw, and a regular amount sexual. it includes regular hozier themes such as: tender vulnerability, knowing better but doing it anyway, animal/forest metaphors, thinly veiled metaphors for oral sex.

He looks at you, and the look is filled with such vulnerability, such adoration, that you can no longer meet his eyes. You know, and he knows, that he shouldn’t look at you like that. You’re a monster, and he’s everything you cannot be. He looks away, remembering that he knows better.

 

He talks to you, and he talks with a such a careful familiarity. Like he wants to know every corner of your soul, but he knows you’re not ready to bare it to him. He sticks to jokes and generalizations. You both know that these gauze curtain barriers are for the best. He shouldn’t know you at all.

 

He offers you a hand up, from the dusty carpet outside his apartment door. He doesn’t know why you’re here (and to be honest, neither do you) but he lets you in anyway. Instead of asking questions, ones you know he will ask eventually, he tells you about his day. The beauty of his soul shines through his mundane words and you’re mesmerized. You think for a moment that maybe this could be your all-the-time, but you know, and he knows, this will not last.

 

“Make this easy for us both,” you say. He looks up at you and he knows what you mean. In fact he knows you almost as well as you do, but he reveres what you fear. “Stop letting me in, tell me no. Leave me in the cold, like I’ve always been. That’s what I know, that’s how I know I’m doing the right thing.”

 

And in a moment of tender charm, he answers you. “No.”

 

“Don’t be kind to me,” you plead, “Don’t let me in, you know you can’t keep me here.”

 

But he can. You know, and he knows, that you will come back. Every time, any time, you will come back.

 

“Come on, I’ll make you dinner,” he says, like that will quell the desperation rising in your throat.

 

It does. That’s the hardest thing to swallow— you don’t have to swallow your guilt when you’re around him. Other things… well. He’s making you dinner.

 

Later, afterwards, you are talking, and he is paying such close attention that you almost feel self-conscious. You make a joke to break the tension, and he smiles, and you see something in his expression that you’re so, so scared of. It’s pure, and it’s soft, and it means you could break him in an instant.

 

Later, after that even, you’re still there. In his apartment, in his bed, in his arms. And you know better, than to let yourself be known like this. And he knows better than to let a monster, however familiar, into his bed. And yet he’s holding you tightly, gently, lovingly. And you can’t even bring yourself to fight it, to warn him. He loves you, and it’s too late, because you love him.

 

You know who you are, what you are, what you’ve done, when you’re alone. You see things most clearly then, you tell yourself. You are a paragon of objectivity, of knowing every perspective without picking a side. You are a monster who made a selfish choice, who can’t decide between fitting into a world you don’t know and going back to a world you unknowingly destroyed. You are a convoluted mess of a not-quite-man who can’t keep his mouth shut.

 

When you see him, when you hear him, that all melts away. To him, you are simply “Indrid” or sometimes “Indy” or “‘drid” or some variation thereof. He thinks you’re funny, and clever, and beautiful. To him, you aren’t the man who says what he doesn’t need to hear. You’re the man who keeps coming back to him.

 

He is so easy to come back to. Being around him feels like home, with his apartment filled with warmth and nature and a cat who tolerates you. He speaks to you like you’ve known each other for years, and you wish you had. His body is a forest you can never get lost in. His bed is already accommodating to your strange figure, tucked against his chest, pretending to sleep. His soul is tangling with yours in an inexplicable display of brilliance. You need him, a little bit, and you can’t—

 

“Don’t let me in,” you try again, nearly screaming in the lowest whisper you can manage. “Stop holding onto me.”

 

He lets go, scared, and you hate the cold that seeps in immediately. He is silent as you slip out of his bed, not your bed, and out of his apartment. “Don’t be kind to me,” you whisper. He can’t hear you. Maybe he’ll never hear you again.

 

But he listened to you, and you listened to him in turn. He let you into his daily routines, fuck, he cooked for you like he was just waiting for you to come. He knows it.

 

You will come back.

 

You can’t help it. You can’t unlearn it. You try, spending days on your own, alone in the cold, trying to ice out your heart and pin it to the wall like so many false prophecies before it. It doesn’t work, just like you knew it wouldn’t work. Every time you close your eyes, all you can see is his front door.

 

Finally, days have passed, you don’t know how long, and you’re there. A vision coming true, the first of hundreds, hundreds of truths and horrors you need to tell him. The door opens, he’s there, you’re there.

 

“It’s cold,” he says, “come on in.”

 

You hesitate. He’s not mad. He is merciful, he is kind, he is forgiving. You don’t deserve mercy. He can’t afford this kindness. You know (or at least, you fear) that you will destroy him, and he hasn’t even finished constructing himself. Maybe, just maybe, you can convince him he is the statue of an idol and not a grave. That’s what it is, isn’t it? That he thinks he’s just as bad as you, and that together you can be a little less miserable. He’s wrong, but he will listen to you, and you are scared of that power.

 

You go inside, regardless. The door swings shut behind you. For a moment, you see a future like a moment you have lived before. Sitting outside on the floor, softly craving a man you won’t let yourself see anymore.

 

That’s not what you picked. You picked him, you want him, you want this.

 

Tonight, the howling is inside.


End file.
